


reaper

by YouAreMyDesign



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood Kink, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, Come Marking, Conditioning, Dark Will Graham, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Face Slapping, Hallucinations, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Hypothermia, M/M, Murder, Murder Husbands, Orgasm Denial, Possessive Behavior, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sadism, Sensory Deprivation, Someone Help Will Graham, Stockholm Syndrome, Violet Wand, Will Graham Knows, Will Graham is a Cannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-21 18:51:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18146057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouAreMyDesign/pseuds/YouAreMyDesign
Summary: The world hurts too much when Hannibal isn't there to gentle him, to keep him calm.





	reaper

Will's hands shake as he lowers his gun, a harsh tremor running down his spine as he blinks, and the darkness falls from his eyes. Instead of monsters, clawed, their teeth bared and reaching for him, the bodies – no, he supposes he should call them 'carcasses' now, for that is what they are – look so, so human. He hates that look on them – hates how soft and sallow they are, hates the shine of their teeth and the smell of their useless bodies voiding themselves, but the red is pretty.

His head tilts, and he steps closer, breathes in. He wants to _taste_ , and places his gun in his right hand, lets it hang loose.

A hand slides into his hair and he swallows, shivers, but doesn't protest as warm fingers wrap around the trigger, cradle his knuckles, ease it from the grip, and the gun is taken away. "What was their offense?" he asks.

He hears, from the devil on his shoulder, a low laugh, and closes his eyes when he's kissed, a soft mouth to the hinge of his jaw, an exhale warm and gentle that raises goose bumps on his exposed neck.

"Does it matter?" the devil murmurs, and Will supposes that, no, it doesn't.

He's been the man's reaper for so long, now, he doesn't remember what it was like to be anything else. Doesn't remember how to fall asleep without claws in his hips and teeth at his neck, no longer enjoys the scent of fresh air unless it's heavy with blood. People, if he can call them that, are lackluster and grey, their eyes too big and sad like cows, the screech and chatter of their voices loud, so _loud_.

Were he in his right mind, or in any place to interact with a licensed professional – or, indeed, if he wanted it, he might seek help for this, and would be examined and labelled as one of the most in-depth and successful psychological experiments of the age. "How interesting," they would say; "He's atypical with his responses, feral, and has no desire to do anything but kill anyone he sees."

"Except his captor."

"Stockholm?"

"Worse than that."

Will trembles, the voices too loud, too loud, the final give of their breath and big staring eyes too grating on his skin, and he turns his head, touches his nose to warm flesh, a thrumming pulse he wants to suck on, to taste. A hand covers his eyes, and he relaxes with another soft sigh.

"I know, darling," he is told, whispered to, that voice the only thing that doesn't hurt. "We'll be home soon."

He sighs, noses at soft skin, a strong jaw, a smooth cheek. Warm, he's warm, and smells sweet. Will's nose stings in the outside world, his eyes burn from street lights and colors – he can't look at the color blue anymore, wants only red, red, red. Wants whiskey-amber and brown and the colors of life and limb. He'd tried to claw out his own eyes before the devil stopped him, told him _no_ , he must always look. He must always see – but he'll be there, if it gets too much.

Moments pass, time shifts, and as Will steps across the threshold into their house, he remembers who he is.

He blinks, breathes in, tastes blood and touches his lower lip, finds it wet, shining. He frowns down at it, lets out a sweet, soft whine, and the devil becomes Hannibal, changes shape and cups his neck and Will sags against him.

"What happened?"

"You tried to eat one of your kills," Hannibal murmurs. He touches his thumb to Will's cheek and Will flinches, feels it smarting and tender, though Hannibal is gentle. So, too, the back of his neck aches like he was grabbed very hard. "I couldn't have you getting sick."

Will swallows, and says; "It's getting worse."

Hannibal nods, and pushes into the hollow of Will's cheek, between his teeth as they part, and the bruising flesh on Will's face aches terribly, but he knows it would be so much worse if it was anyone other than Hannibal touching him.

"We'll have to increase the intensity of your therapy, that's all," he says, assured as ever, and Will licks his lips, tastes blood where the lower one has split. He sucks in a breath when Hannibal kisses him, tongue warm, thick, sliding into his mouth, hands big and spread on Will's face and into his hair. He breathes in again, lungs aching for air, and Hannibal is the only thing in the world that smells good to him anymore – even the things he's reminiscent of, paper and wine and meat, pale in comparison to Hannibal's flesh.

"I need you, Hannibal," he whispers, pawing at the plastic covering Hannibal's wrist. "I need help. _Please_."

Hannibal smiles, all teeth, and he's monstrous and savage, and shines. He brings Will through their home, into a room that is small and dark, and pushes him inside it. Will whines when his back connects with hard cement, blinks at the single spark of light that illuminates Hannibal's silhouette, and sinks to his heels as Hannibal reaches for the door.

Hannibal smiles at him, and Will closes his eyes, drags his nails through his hair as the door closes, seals tight, a soft 'click' meaning the seal has expanded, making it water tight. Then, he trembles, and stands, pulling off his clothes as the water starts to pour in. It's icy-cold, a shock to his system, and he shivers and curls up in a tight ball, pressed to the cement that's comparatively warm, ruts against it until his shoulders burn.

His muscles twitch and judder, toes curling to the balls of his feet, then one foot rubbing up the side of his leg, trying to warm it as the chilly water keeps rising. As narrow as the room is, it fills quickly, and Will whimpers, rubs frantically over his skin as it turns pale, and then burning, body working in overtime to try and keep his extremities warm. But there's no warmth, his own body is selfish and doesn't care if he hurts, knows only that it must live enough to sate his master's hunger. He flinches with another yelp as the water wraps around his thighs, presses like a lover's touch, cups his balls and flaccid cock, makes him shiver and tense up. Pours into his pubic hair, grips his knees until they shudder, and finally Will must lift a hand, hooking his wrist through the single loop that dangles just above his head to keep himself upright so he doesn't fall.

The water stops when it reaches his collarbones, and Will is so cold, freezing to the core, shuddering as the cold seeps through his skin, sinks into muscle and bone until the twitches become hard spasms. Every one makes his entire body jerk and flex, his jaw clenching, biting his tongue fierce enough to send a sharp lance of pain into his head. He dips his head down, lets his bruised cheek and split lip touch the surface of the water, sighing, surrendering to it as his blood starts to retreat, tries to keep his heart and lungs warm. There is only, above him, a single vent by the shower faucet that gives him fresh air, through it's thin, and he will become lightheaded soon. He reaches up and unwraps the cuff, hooks it just past his elbow, so even if he sags, he won't drown. He tightens it with a wince, and lets himself drop, until his chin dips into the water. His lungs shiver and spasm, too cold to breathe all the way in, he can feel his heart slowing, his brain turning heavy and sitting like a rock in his skull.

He closes his eyes, the black darkening, and floats, sinks, too cold to move aside from the protesting roll and shift of his body, desperately trying to warm the water, but there is no getting warm. Only when he feels a sudden flush of heat does he smile, tiredly, in absolute silence – his stomach sinks in, heart hammering in a stubborn attempt to keep blood flowing, and exhaustion sweeps through him, making him sag and whine, his knees folding and collapsing so that he dips, bottom lip in the water, mouth flooded with ice.

It's perfect – the intensity of his body trying to stay warm means he can't think, can only feel cold and small, bereft of comfort, of sound. He breathes in, swallows a mouthful of water, lashes fluttering and tilting his head to soothe his smarting cheek with the cold touch.

Minutes pass, maybe hours, maybe days, until Will feels nothing but silence and heat, his brain tricking him into thinking he's warm, just so that his muscles stop shivering. But he's freezing, so cold, so cold, and doesn't react as another click triggers, the drain between his feet opens up, and the water starts to recede.

He whimpers, flinching as the water drains quickly, leaving him twitching and shaking, the air suddenly too warm, so warm. The door opens and Will winces, shutting his eyes from the light. A gentle hand touches his face but it blisters, brands him, and he snarls, parts his teeth and snaps at the hand, fighting it off.

"Will."

Oh, it's only Hannibal. Will sighs, weak, lax, as Hannibal undoes the cuff around his arm and catches him when he falls, and Hannibal takes him out of the small room. The lights are low, but far too bright, and Will's breath hitches, lungs suddenly allowed fresh air, and he's taken to the bench, pushed down onto his knees and chest, arms hanging limply on either side.

Hannibal crouches in front of him, and binds his hands, and the brush of rope is so sudden and strong, as Hannibal binds him tight enough that blood can't return to his hands, and they are pale and blue – he hates that color, hates it, snarls and bites his knuckles, his tongue too hot and burning the skin as he growls and tugs at his own flesh.

Until Hannibal puts a hand in his hair, yanks him up and Will submits to it with a low whine, closes his eyes as Hannibal flattens a soft towel over his shoulders – but that hurts too, rubs over skin too-raw and softened by water. He is at a high simmer, ragged sounds bubbling up and falling from him, and Hannibal pets the towel down his back, drags along his skin like sandpaper.

He folds it on Will's hips, tucks it under Will's belly, and lets it sit there as a brace, making Will flinch and rock his hips, trying to get away from it. He whines as Hannibal moves away from him, wrapping the straps of leather attached to the knee pads around the backs of his thighs, and below his knees, and Will jerks in place, snarling, trying to get away from the pressure because it's so much, it's too much, _Hannibal, please_.

"No, darling," Hannibal purrs, and pushes his hands against Will's thighs, making them spread, adjusting the knee pads until he's wide open, mounting the chest brace, and can't make his trembling body move or fight it.

There is another long moment of echoing stillness, and then a sudden, sharp jolt of electric pain that runs up Will's back, and he tosses his head and howls as Hannibal tucks the glass electrode of the violet wand against his perineum. The sensation itself, he knows, is muted, robbed of the space it needs to create a true spark, but his sensitive body arches and tenses, muscles that were soaked into pliancy twitching and tightening so harshly that it hurts.

"Hannibal," he groans, shuddering, trying to pull his legs together, but he can't. Tries to lift his shoulders, and can't. Tries to get away from it – can't, pinned and at the mercy of Hannibal's touch, his poison and pain, and Hannibal merely hums, rubbing the smooth head of the electrode between his legs, touching his balls until Will whimpers and writhes, and then slides it up, and pushes it, smooth and easy, into Will's spasming body.

Will shudders, electricity coursing through him, and now Hannibal pets him, but does not touch, letting the electric current spark between his hands and Will's flesh, until that bubbling heat is everywhere. He wraps a hand in Will's hair, hauls him upright and pushes his fingers into Will's mouth, making the current roar between them, Will's tongue tense and atrophied in his mouth as he sucks weakly on Hannibal's fingers. Hannibal's hips rut against him, shoving the wand deeper into him.

Will shrieks as it touches his prostate, his entire body jerking so violently that he bites down on Hannibal's fingers, splitting skin between sharp canines, a trickle of blood coating his tongue, and Hannibal snarls, shoves his fingers in deep until Will gags, making him choke on it.

He wraps a hand around Will's throat and pulls his fingers out, and Will moans, every cell in him on fire and flexing, and he drops his head so Hannibal chokes him.

"I'm sorry," he rasps, brings his arms up and tries to paw at Hannibal's hand on his neck. Can't, his arms twitching and falling limp at another surge of current. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I -."

"Hush, Will," Hannibal growls, his voice low, soothing Will's distress. He kisses Will's bruised cheek and the way his lips part makes another spark of current run through him, from Will's damp body, up his arm, through his mouth, and Will flinches, turns his head, blood-heavy skin pushing rabidly on Hannibal's tongue.

Will is still freezing, not even Hannibal can warm him, and he whines as Hannibal pulls back, his hands falling away, and he works the wand deeper into Will, twists it, drags it out so the spasm of Will's muscles makes more sparks fly, and it hurts, it hurts so much, sets Will aflame with the need to make it stop.

Hannibal doesn't stop, merely turns up the voltage on the wand until Will screams.

"Please, no!" he cries, jerking, shuddering, every muscle in him tensed and locked, and Hannibal snaps his teeth together, circles until he's standing in front of Will's face, and Will lifts his head. Hannibal is not the devil, now – he is God, wrathful and righteous, and Will tries to reach for him, wanting desperately to please him, to soothe his teeth and gentle his hand, his will be done.

Hannibal is not gentle, now – but Will aches for it all the same, because Hannibal is the only one he can bear to have touching him. Hannibal grips his hair, snarling, and his hand connects harshly with Will's bruised cheek, the current connecting them first, making Will's teeth snap, and then his hand, blooming another patch of heated pain, and Will can't even flinch for how tightly he's held.

"You'd deny me?" Hannibal demands, and Will swallows, tries to say no, _no_ , of course he wouldn't, but Hannibal hits him again, backhanded, and Will coughs and spits out a thick drop of blood, as his teeth cut the inside of his cheek, his split lip reopens. He drools onto the floor, onto Hannibal's shoe, and flinches when Hannibal slaps him again. "You're mine, to do with as I will."

Will nods, or tries to.

"You came to me and asked for my help. This is helping you, Will."

Will nods again, spitting out another heavy wad of bloody saliva. He moans as Hannibal jerks on his hair, ruts his hips forward until Will kisses, open and wet, along the bulge of Hannibal's cock, smearing blood and spit.

"Say it," Hannibal growls, and when Will meets his eyes, they're only black. Black is such a good color on him. "Who do you belong to?"

"You," Will breathes, rasping, and Hannibal lifts his chin, tugs on his hair hard enough to hurt, and Will winces, tightening around the wand in his ass, which just sends another ricochet of painful electricity up his sensitive, sore body. He aches so _much_ , if Hannibal untied him and told him to stand, he wouldn't be able to. "I'm yours."

Hannibal hums, shows his teeth.

He sighs, wets his split lip with his tongue, and nuzzles Hannibal's trapped cock. "Thank you, Hannibal," he breathes. "Thank you."

Hannibal finally gentles, at that, and gives Will a smile that's almost sweet. "It's my pleasure, darling," he purrs, and though Will flinches from him, he allows Hannibal's knuckles to connect with his cheek, softly – the current snaps between them, loud, and Will's jaw clenches and stiffens in reaction to it, his brain lit up behind his eyes as he sags, aching for Hannibal's touch; his cruelty, his kindness, it's all the same and it's the only thing that feels good.

Hannibal smiles, and works his free hand under his clothes, pushing them down until his leaking cockhead smears, slick and fat, over Will's bruised cheek. Will parts his lips immediately and Hannibal thrusts in, deep, until he gags. His hand slides to the back of Will's head and tightens, his chin lifts, lashes fluttering as the undercurrent of electricity in Will's mouth touches his sensitive flesh.

"Oh," he gasps, and Will whines, swallowing as much as he can with his nose pressed to Hannibal's pubic hair, his entire body rolling forward, head tilting, seeking to take more. His throat spasms around Hannibal, another spark connecting his wet throat to Hannibal's cockhead, and they both shudder and snarl at the feeling, Hannibal's cock twitching inside him and plugging him up so that he can't breathe.

He holds Will like that, until his lungs seize and his heart flutters in his neck, his eyes closing, thinking Hannibal might merely linger there, making Will fight for breath – maybe until he passes out. Hannibal makes him float, makes him feel weightless, and though he won't fight it, he moans with loss when Hannibal pulls out of him.

He wraps a hand around his cock and Will opens his eyes, panting heavily, unable to stop his mouth leaking with blood and saliva as he looks up, meets Hannibal's eyes. Hannibal grits his teeth, tugging on the head of his cock, and Will shivers as he comes, spilling over Will's face. Over his bruised cheek, his open lip stinging, sparks of electricity settling as it drips from him and makes his jaw and cheeks spasm, his neck tight, his teeth bared and aching as Hannibal finishes in his hair, forcing his head down so that he can fuck the rest of his come through Will's sweat-damp curls.

Will whimpers, as Hannibal breathes out, steps back and tucks himself back in, and releases Will's hair. Will sags, breathing hard, panting and shaking, and Hannibal goes to his ass and turns the wand off, gently easing it out of him as Will shudders, clenching around nothing, aching to be full again. When Hannibal is inside him, he's heavy, and Will can't float away with the devil dragging him so determinedly down.

He licks his lips, tasting blood and come on them, and shudders as Hannibal brings the kneepads together, unstraps his thighs and calves, and tucks the kneepads under his belly so he can rest. He pulls the towel away and returns to Will's face, wiping him clean with gentle touches that, while not particularly thorough, are soothing.

Will sighs, lips twitching in a small smile, and Hannibal unbinds his hands. They tingle with renewed blood flow, shiver and turn red, and Will's smile widens. He likes red, and licks over his knuckles, purring in satisfaction to find the color so stark on his skin.

Hannibal pets through his hair, lifts him, and forces him to stand. Though he sags, Hannibal is there to hold him up, and Will turns his face away, tucks his shoulder to Hannibal's chest, careful not to get any mess on his clothes.

"Come, darling," Hannibal purrs, and leads him back to the tank. Will goes inside, falls to his knees and sits with his back to the wall. Hannibal smiles at him, leans down and takes in a deep, ragged breath of his scent covering Will's hair, and then pulls back.

"Rest," he murmurs. "I'll return when it's time to hunt again."

Will smiles, too lax to move, too sore and cold now, but cold is good. Cold means no heat, no electricity, no pain. He curls his knees to his chest and closes his eyes, welcoming the darkness, the silence, because the world hurts too much when Hannibal isn't there to gentle him, to keep him calm.

In the lowest circle of Hell, the devil is encased in ice, and Will welcomes the chill, because it means he's home. He sighs, content to wait, until he's called for again.


End file.
